The brush of truth, holds you still.
It's eyes of death with an eerie of foot.
It locks with its beauty it made you evil you black soul.
That was painted black, the painter was in sin.
That night he stole his heart and gave a squeeze.
His eyes stained red, but the color of his brush was black.
That's right, your the smybolof him, the every clear image.
The painter died of crouse but the paint was cursed!
You ugly soul you know nothing of love.
But why did you kill your self that awful dreaded night?
Nor do I care of your values, you turned my soul black.
You made that art your own.
So as you weep in the painting what do you see?
You see me, a piece of your self.
Thank you for setting me free.
Author notes
This came from the top of my head, kinda werid but hey that me
"the artist paints his soul on canvas!"
A contest entry
- A Painter's Brush! by Ted E Bare.
300 points, ended May 22, 2008, 25 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Was it good?
Comments
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I do think this one was headed straight for the dark side. Image was great as your lines painted a picture for the eyes to have this story told before them. I want to thank you for entering my "A Painter's Brush!" contest.
Ted E
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good yes,the work itself is genius.
demon
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not bad
i enjoyed htis one it wasnt the kind of dark stuff i read or write but it was nice 2 claps for you foxy
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ok
I don't usually read poems of this type. As a gesture of fellow poet respect I gave it a gander.
It was ok. You have a few grammatical booboos though.
have a jolly time here.
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